


Beating Heart

by iridescentglow



Category: IAMX, The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Painting the town red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beating Heart

"What's that?" Noel asked.

"What does it look like?" Chris replied.

_Ask a stupid question…_ a voice in his head taunted. (It was a voice that sounded disapproving like his mum, yet had an unhinged, sing-song quality not unlike Courtney. Confusing.) "It looks like a tin of paint, Chris," Noel said slowly.

"_Yes_. They say only idiots go into stand-up comedy, but clearly they are wrong." Chris gave him a long, meaningful look, nodded sagely and then reached over to chuck him on the chin.

Chris began walking down the road, the paint can grasped in both hands. Noel paused for a moment, watching him go. Then he broke into a trot in order to catch up.

"I thought we were gonna go for a drink. I know some good places around—"

"You said," Chris interrupted. He paused to cast a sidelong look at Noel and rephrased. "Tell me what you said."

Cringing slightly, Noel recalled the text message he had sent to Chris. "You know," he hedged, "my colourful interpretation of the English language is what makes me charming and personable. I'm fun to be around. Similes, metaphors, even the odd allegory, I make them my bitch. And people like me for it."

Chris smirked. "Because of your colourful language," he repeated.

"Yes."

"Right." Chris carried on walking.

"You know, most people, were they to receive a text message suggesting we meet up and maybe _paint the town red_, would not interpret this literally."

Chris had increased his walking pace, so his voice, low and lazy, drifted back to Noel. "I'm not most people."

"You know"—Noel was aware that he had been squished into the role of petulant child, but he couldn't seem to keep the crankiness out of his voice—"I have friends that I like better than you, Chris."

"Fine," Chris said, without missing a beat. "Go home."

He sounded serious, too. Noel could just imagine Chris carrying on without him. He would paint the town (literally) red all on his own. Noel couldn't help but laugh at the image of Chris alone, completely solemn as he painted red random patches of Camden. Noel felt the laughter multiply in his belly, so that he was forced to stop and double over. Over a minute passed and he was still laughing. He felt like he might pass out, he was laughing so hard.

"Are you done, you silly sod?" There was, unmistakably, fondness in Chris' voice.

Noel pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at Chris. With difficulty, he straightened up. He was still sputtering out occasional bursts of laughter, like a wind-up doll gone wonky. Chris hesitated, and then stepped forward, so that Noel could lean on him.

"I'm done," he said at last, fitting himself into the places where Chris' body curved to accommodate him. "And I am so"—he half-choked on a remaining bubble of laughter, but managed to swallow it down—"_so_ ready to paint the town red."

They ambled along a little further. Noel's arm was still hooked around Chris' waist. He leaned his head against Chris' shoulder as they walked, because he thought it felt nice. There was an innate aloofness to the way that Chris held himself; the way he would touch you only at precise moments. Somehow it brought out a touchy-feely-neediness in Noel; a desire to crawl into his personal space, smother Chris with unasked-for affection. It was possible that Noel was slightly perverse. Chris barely reacted to his touches; he did not comment on the way Noel's fingers agitated at the waistband of Chris' trousers, rubbing idly against his hip as he found bare skin.

"How d'you go about painting the town red?" Noel asked, once the silence had stretched and Noel could bear Chris' reticence no longer.

"Well, we should avoid the main roads, at least this early." Chris smiled mirthlessly. "I'd rather not be slapped with a vandalism charge."

"Not much of an anarchist, are you?" Noel said, suppressing a smile.

"No," Chris said coolly. When Noel burst out laughing, Chris continued, "Not if you define anarchy as pointlessly making a mess."

"Isn't that exactly what we're doing, though?"

"I thought you were an artist," Chris countered, and Noel had to admit, he had a point. Camden painted red could be his statement. His Damien Hirst-style masterpiece. Most people would think it was just a bit shit, but there were bound to be a couple of idiots who would declare him a genius.

"Come on, then," Noel said. "Let's have at it."

"Here?"

"Why not?" Noel looked around them. The street that they had wandered onto was a quiet one; there was no one around to stop them from making a pointless mess or, indeed, creating art (whichever it might be).

Chris set the tin of paint down on the pavement and began prying loose the lid.

"Do you have brushes? …rollers?" Noel asked. "Anything?"

"Nope." The lid clattered onto the tarmac and Chris lifted the paint can in the air. In one fluid motion, he splashed the entire contents of the can against a building's brick wall. Chris dropped the paint can and stood back to admire the gaping wound of a paint pattern. "There."

Noel felt his artistic soul die just a little bit. He frowned. "Well, okay then. We have successfully painted the town red."

Chris did not seem to be listening. He stepped forward and braced himself against the wall, placing the palms of both hands against the wet paint. When he stepped away, his hands were bright red, covered in paint. He turned to face Noel, advancing on him in a slightly menacing manner. Noel gulped. The jacket he was wearing had cost $300 dollars. He had bought it in LA and it was his current favourite.

It took Noel a moment to work out what Chris was murmuring under his breath. "Red, red, red…" he chanted. There was definitely something serial-killer-esque about Chris Corner. There was also definitely something perverse about Noel, because as much as he loved his jacket, he was certain that if Chris wanted to touch him (paint-covered hands or not), Noel would let him.

Chris stopped a precise foot-and-a-half from Noel. His face broke into a rare grin. "You're so easy," Chris said at normal volume. His contempt was tempered by what sounded like genuine affection. He slipped past Noel and placed his hands against a lamppost.

Noel watched as Chris curled his fingers around the post. There was something graceful, almost loving about the way he imprinted himself on dull grey surface. Slowly, he made more handprints, each one fainter, less distinct than the last. He seemed utterly absorbed in the task. Noel was an attention seeker of an artist; he couldn't go more than five minutes without asking someone else's opinion on his work. He was best at collaborations, with regular breaks for giggling, lighting up cigarettes and idly inventing increasingly warped concepts. But Noel recognized in Chris an echo of his unrequited art school crushes; the black-clad loners who would set up their canvases in an empty corner of the studio and appear to absorb themselves into their paintings. Fucking weirdoes.

Noel walked to the red wall. He had to admit, its aesthetics were growing on him. The paint splatter had arced high as it hit the wall. The resulting wave of red, which glimmered almost black in the muted light, had an impressive, looming quality. He reached out and ran a single finger down the wall, the wet stickiness of the paint coating his fingertip. He glanced over at Chris, who had created an ugly-beautiful pattern of distorted handprints on the lamppost. It had the quality of psychiatry test pictures, where whatever interpretation you made determined whether you were crazy. In Chris' pattern, Noel saw shifting creatures; alternate universes; endless possibilities.

Noel walked over to Chris, so that he was standing behind him. With his clean hand, Noel swept Chris' hair back off his face, tucking it behind his ear, uncovering the long, pale shape of his neck. Chris stilled, but did not react. Noel forced the air out of his lungs, a long breath of warmth that hit Chris' bare skin, making him twitch involuntarily. With deliberate calm, Noel used his paint-wet finger to draw a steady line from the patch of skin behind Chris' ear, right down his neck and over the ridge of his collarbone, swirling over his shoulder until Noel's finger skidded away.

Noel had never liked the idea of portraits. He had yawned his way through the tedious realism of life drawing. Since he had freed himself from the rigours of classical instruction, the paintings he did of his friends and family had become cartoonish, faux-Cubist renderings meant to express more than just the way they looked. Even incorporating this loose style of drawing, Noel had the feeling that Chris would be difficult to pin down; it would be hard to accurately fasten him to a canvas and point to it and say, _yes, that's Chris, that's my friend, that's—_

Noel's hand lingered in the vicinity of Chris, not quite touching him, but not yet ready to pull away. He watched the red line of paint on Chris skin, the way it shivered as Chris' shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. Fleetingly, he imagined adding more colours. Trickling stripes of paint coating his shoulders and chest, pooling amid the sharp protrusions of his ribcage. Blues, purples… a satisfying bruise of a colour palette, and Chris made into a human canvas.

"Do you want—" Chris' voice was low, a whisper that slipped inside Noel's busy head, mingling with his thoughts. "Do you want"—a fraction louder this time—"to take off that stupid jacket that _Courtney Love_ suggested you buy, that you can't stop going on about?" Noel saw a smile twitch at the corner of his lips before Chris continued, "Do you want to take it off before I fuck you against that wall?"

The way he posed it as a question—a polite, reasonable _question_—made Noel's cock twitch. He swallowed hard. In his rush to take off the jacket, he ended up getting it caught, arms tangled inside the sleeves. Chris turned and fixed dark, unreadable eyes on Noel. He watched as he struggled. The jacket finally fell in a heap at his feet. "You may as well take off your t-shirt as well," Chris said, with a slight flick of his wrist.

It was Spring, but still not warm. Gooseflesh rose on his chest immediately as he dropped his t-shirt on the ground. It was beginning to creep into his awareness just how monumentally ridiculous he might look right now, shivering on a dark street in just his jeans. There were times for monumental ridiculousness, but he wasn't sure this was one of them. He murmured, "Maybe I should—"

Chris closed the gap between them. He ground his hips briefly against Noel, signalling, _soon_. He placed the palms of his hands, which were drying, but still noticeably sticky, against each side of Noel's chest. Chris' fingers found the indents of his ribcage, thumbs poking at his sternum. Chris pushed him backward, a skidding shuffle, so that Noel was slammed against the wall. It was not a violent movement, but purposeful. Noel felt lovingly bruised; put in his place. He was aware of the clinging sensation of wet paint at his back, in his hair. It was a little like lying on dewy grass. Chris' fingers released him; his body winced for the loss of contact. When he glanced down, he saw smudges of red across his ribcage.

Chris reached around him, flattening his palms against the wall, coating them in paint once more. He returned his attention to Noel. Carefully, he aligned his hand and placed a handprint slightly off-centre on Noel's chest. When he removed his hand, the red print remained like a beating heart.


End file.
